


Keep 'Em Coming

by Emphysematous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (imagined) casual use, (imagined) drowning in cum (I am so sorry), (imagined) necrophilia (like REALLY SORRY), (imagined) non-con, (imagined) non-con incest (really sorry), (imagined) sex slavery, (imagined) sex with strangers, (imagined) sexin public, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, BDSM, Consensual Thramsay, Cuddling, Dry Orgasm, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Massage, Shameless Smut, Slut Shaming, Sub-Drop, descending into depraved fantasy, masturape, perverting religious rites, sickly sweet fluff, talking filth, wank-challenges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 16:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10948236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emphysematous/pseuds/Emphysematous
Summary: Ramsay punishes Theon for coming too soon by making him come again. And again. And... again??Set in LelithSugar's Consensual!Thramsay canon divergence (R & T are perverts in love with a fully consensual BDSM relationship)MIND THE TAGS





	Keep 'Em Coming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LelithSugar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/gifts).



> This is set in the Bloodied Up! AU, so everything is consensual. This fic dives into some really dark and depraved places at times but it's all in Theon's perverted imagination. Still, if there's anything in the tags that you're uncomfortable with, be cautious. 
> 
> To LelithSugar, you challenged me and I failed so please have this fic in forfeit (and sorry it's like, two months late... ooops...) I love you!

Eight days. It had been  _ eight days _ . Roose had sent his bastard on an excursion to persuade some rebellious farmers that following the wishes of their liege lord was the most fortuitous and least bloody way forward for everyone. Ramsay had taken the opportunity to flex some control muscles and had left Theon with strict instructions not to touch or stimulate himself in any way until he got back. They had both expected him to be away for a night or two at the most. But two days had stretched into three, then four... Now, on the eighth day, Theon had been genuinely anxious about going to sleep in case his frustrated body betrayed him in his dreams. 

He had been longer without release before, of course, but somehow knowing that he wasn't allowed to - that it was forbidden - made it the only thing on his mind. Probably this had been exactly Ramsay's intention when he'd sauntered off expecting to be back just a short while later. Cutting Theon down from his customary two or three orgasms a day to absolute zero for a while had seemed a playful way to make his homecoming more exciting for both of them - but then floods along the Weeping Water had taken out a bridge and left the negotiation party as unwanted house guests of the same farmers they'd gone to intimidate, until a troop of builders was able to fashion a temporary replacement. 

So Theon had been left with his orders standing for day after endless, frustrating, aching, day, trying to keep himself busy in the kennels or the kitchens. If he worked until his body was exhausted in the day, hopefully he'd sleep deeply enough to make it safely through the nights. "Sorry, I was asleep" would  _ not _ be an acceptable excuse. 

Then -  _ finally _ \- the small group had been sighted and Theon had limped along the corridors wrapped in Reek's filthy robes, arranging for hot food and hotter bath water to be sent up to Ramsay's rooms. A moment's hesitation over whether he should return to his expected place in the kitchens until he was sent for had been easily quashed in favour of having Ramsay to himself as soon as possible, and he'd scurried up the stairs as fast as his fictionally injured leg would let him. 

Arranging himself into his upright kneel at the foot of the bed, Theon listens with growing anticipation for Ramsay's footsteps on the tower steps. By the time the outer door swings open he's desperately hard and has worked himself up into quite a state. He physically twitches when Ramsay comes through the anteroom into his bedchamber, the urge to leap up and cling to him warring with his intention to stay kneeling and obedient. 

"Thee?" Ramsay calls out as he enters, mouth already full and chewing, the rest of the pastry steaming in his hand. "Ah, good boy!" he beams brightly at Theon, spreading his arms in welcome. Theon scrabbles to his feet and launches himself at him, wrapping arms and legs around his body and burying his face into his shirt. He inhales deeply, smelling woodsmoke and sweet hay and leather and horses and sweat and  _ Ramsay _ . His Ramsay. Strong arms cradle him and he's momentarily breathless from a bearhug. Ramsay kisses the side of his head. "I missed you too, pretty boy."

Gently, Ramsay disentangles himself from Theon's limbs and pours himself a mugful of watered wine, which he drains almost in one draught. Theon clings to him, rubbing his face into his chest, feeling the solidity of him, the nearness. Ramsay shuffles, a little awkwardly, hindered by Theon practically hanging off him. "Fuck's sake, Thee..." he grumbles, taking a bite of cheese. He grips Theon by the face and pushes him away and down, giving himself a little breathing space. Theon obediently folds into an awkward half-squat, half-kneel at his feet, but continues to hold on, now nuzzling against his thigh, arms wrapped around his leg.

"Gods Theon, would you fuck  _ off _ ?" Ramsay shakes his leg vigorously, kicking Theon in the thigh, only partially accidentally. "Let go of me! Stand up!" he barks, and Theon scrambles to obey. Ramsay slaps him across the face. "Go over there until I want you." He points to the bed and Theon practically skips over to it, sprawling on his back with all limbs spread. 

Ramsay glances over his shoulder at him and rolls his eyes. "Whore." Theon wiggles his fingers at him, perfectly content with the epithet, and watches with impatient anticipation as Ramsay methodically undresses and starts to wash the days of riding and sleeping in campsites from his body, standing naked at the open window. 

"Theon!  _ Hands _ !" he barks, not even looking to know that Theon had come dangerously close to touching himself. Theon whines but whips his hands up to tug at his hair in frustration. Ramsay continues to wash, working the soap over shoulders, arms, chest, stomach, hips... Theon forces himself to shut his eyes - he really doesn't think he could maintain his self control any longer. Instead, he listens to the splashes and drips of the water while Ramsay meticulously cleans himself. 

"Have you been a good boy?" A conversational tone, punctuated with pouring water - he's washing his hair, Theon guesses. 

"So good, Ram! I've been so good, I just.. please..."

"Yes, yes..." Ramsay dismisses him and there's more pouring water, more splashes. "Get yourself ready for me, then," he adds, almost as an aside. 

_ Finally! _ Theon rolls across the bed and fetches a small brown pot. The grease inside is fragrant, scented with lavender and pine, and rapidly melts in his hot hands into a thick oil. Ramsay is cleaning and trimming his nails with a tiny but deadly cuff blade, apparently too engrossed in the task to glance up but Theon raises his backside into the air and puts on a show anyway, spreading himself open and making a big deal out of working one, two,  _ three _ fingers into his body. He desperately wants to make Ramsay moan, or twitch or even just  _ look _ at him. Something -  _ anything _ \- to acknowledge him. 

Ramsay, of course, doesn't take the slightest bit of notice of him rolling around on the bed, wiggling his arse about like a bitch in heat - right up to the point where he strides over and climbs over him, straddling him on all fours so Theon is trapped in a cage of limbs. Exactly where he wanted to be. Theon groans in anticipation and lifts his hips to press his backside against Ramsay's thighs, but only earns himself a stinging slap on the ribs for his efforts. 

"Stop that, you tart. Turn over." Ramsay's voice is a low growl, but Theon can hear the playful note hidden under the mock gruffness. He corkscrews round onto his back, lifting his arms up over his head in ready submission. Ramsay smirks down at him. "Eager, aren't you?"

"Please, Ram...  _ Please  _ fuck me..." Theon is completely beyond being ashamed at begging. He spreads his legs as far as he can with Ramsay kneeling over him. "Please, please,  _ please _ ..."

He's ignored, of course, but somehow that just makes it better. Theon squirms, tilting his head back to show the column of his throat. He almost has no bitemarks or bruises at the moment - he hasn't had unmarred skin there since the day he arrived at the Dreadfort. He tries to hold back a whine as Ramsay sits back on his heels to observe him and while part of him is loving the way he's being looked at like he's a particularly fine creature Ramsay has bred from the kennels or stables, the majority of him just wants to be touched -  _ to be fucked  _ \- and he's almost at the point where he'd rather be hit than stared at in silence like this for a moment longer. 

Just as Theon is about to scream in frustration, Ramsay drops his weight heavily onto his collarbones, pinning him flat to the bed. Ramsay's feet wrap around Theon's calves, trapping them in place. He hisses his approval and rocks his hips up to press against Ramsay's body. Ramsay chuckles at him. "Got you," he grins. Theon knows this game. He squirms, trying to break free. One hand pushes at Ramsay's neck, the other reaches out to grab the bedstead and he tries to haul himself out from underneath the hold. He actually gets one leg free and swings it out wide to prevent recapture. Ramsay smiles broadly, growling with approval: "mine". Theon's skin rises into goosebumps. 

They wrestle. Theon writhes in joyful mock distress under the weight of Ramsay's body pinning him to the bed, struggling against him just to prove how ineffectual his struggles are. Theon throws himself fully into his attempts to escape - it's more fun to try for real and still be held down and at Ramsay's mercy. Fuck, he's so  _ hard _ . Ramsay's holding both his wrists in one hand, trapped against the bed next to his ear. His body presses heavily onto him and fuck, yes, he's hard too and Theon  _ wants _ it. Wants it beyond words, almost beyond being able to move. He's sweating, panting, his skin burning hot and still,  _ still _ , Ramsay isn't fucking him, isn't making any move to touch his aching cock. 

"Did you miss me, little whore?" Ramsay growls into his ear in a voice that makes Theon's stomach flip.  He replies by raising his hips, rutting frantically against Ramsay's thighs and suddenly it's all so overwhelming, so  _ much _ . It's been so long and now... He gasps a breath, eyes fluttering closed. 

Ramsay slaps him hard across the face and then grabs him by the throat, snarling in outrage, "don't you  _ dare _ fucking come, Theon!" in exactly the tone of voice that he  _ knows _ can make Theon come just on hearing it. " _ No! _ " 

Ramsay's barked order is too late. Far, far too late. Theon's gone. Eyes squeezed shut in part-climax, part-utter horror, hands flying to his cock as if to somehow hold it all in, whole body shaking as his balls empty days and days of teasing and frustration onto Ramsay's hip and thigh. He clings to Ramsay’s body, as if that will somehow prevent him from knowing what he just did. The embarrassment is crushing him. He can't breathe.

This has never happened before. 

There's an excruciating moment that could have been a fraction of a second or a hundred years while Ramsay takes in the scene. Theon drags in a breath and then the tears come. He's failed. He'd been so good for so fucking long and now, right when he was about to get his reward, he'd fucked it all up. He lets Ramsay push him away, feels the rush of air cooling his own seed on his skin and knows that Ramsay will be feeling the same thing. They're both painted in his humiliation. Theon turns his face away and curls into a ball, trying to hide his pathetic, traitorous cock. 

Ramsay whistles through his teeth. “Oh my....” he wipes a finger through the stickiness on Theon’s hip and tastes it, head tilted to one side as if deep in thought. “You  _ are _ in trouble now, little squid.” He smirks and then he’s laughing, he’s actually  _ laughing _ . The grin is splitting his face wide open as he sits back on his heels and watches Theon try to sink through the bed and disappear. “What are you, fourteen?” He uses a corner of bedsheet to scrub Theon’s come off his body and pushes the damp fabric into Theon’s face, smearing his shame onto his skin. 

Ramsay shakes his head in solemn mock-disapproval. “Oh dear, Theon… I distinctly remember telling you that you weren’t allowed to come until I gave you permission.” He cocks his head in melodramatic ‘thought’. “Did you hear me give you permission, Greyjoy?” Theon shakes his head miserably, eyes squeezed shut, knees drawn up and ankles crossed in a protective huddle. Ramsay sighs. “Tut tut, my boy. Now all my plans have gone out the window, because you couldn’t control yourself. Are you  _ sure _ you haven’t been misbehaving while I was away? I  _ will _ find out.” That low, threatening growl that rumbles straight through Theon’s bones. He shivers. 

“I’m sure, Ram! I was good! I promise!” Theon reaches out to him, but stops short of actually touching him without permission. “I was good. So good. And now I’ve fucked it all up and ruined your homecoming and you didn’t get to have me like you wanted and I’m  _ sorry, _ Ram! I’m so sorry!” Fresh tears well in his eyes and he wipes his face on the seed-stained sheets. 

"Oh, I’m still having you, you silly little slut. Turn over." Ramsay is not gentle as he shoves Theon onto his stomach and forces the side of his hand between his arse cheeks. 

"Ah! Ram, I'm sorry I just..." Theon babbles in dismay, face burning red in humiliation. He hadn't felt like this since his brothers had caught him... ‘experimenting’ with himself when he was still back on Pyke.

"Oh, shut the fuck up." Ramsay's fingers smear the grease around Theon's arsehole into him with workmanlike efficiency. He leans in close and whispers into Theon’s ear, "I was going to make it so good for you tonight..." A shrug. “This will have to do.”

He holds Theon down by the back of the neck and arranges himself between his thighs. There's no preamble to his penetration and Theon hisses into the furs, soaking up the pain that he knows he deserves. Ramsay fucks him entirely for his own pleasure, heedless of the awkward position Theon’s being held in, or the friction burns he’s getting from being rutted into the sheets. His fingers leave spots of bruises on Theon’s neck and hips when he finally empties himself into  his arse with a guttural grunt and then he climbs off and walks away from him - spread open and leaking seed - in favour of a couple of still-warm pastries on the side table. 

Theon stays where he was left. He hasn’t been told to do anything else, and at the moment it’s important he doesn’t put a foot out of place. He listens to Ramsay picking through the plate and rummaging through his travel bag. He waits. Usually he’d be bustling around the room, sorting out laundry and cleaning boots and sharpening the razor that Ramsay would have inevitably failed to have kept a decent edge on and performing all manner of small, useful tasks. But now he lies wide open on the bed and waits for further instruction. It’s all he’s good for.  _ Useless. _ His body shakes as he swallows a sob.  _ Fucking pathetic. Useless.  _

“You shoul’a god more’a those li’l square’uns,” Ramsay comments through a mouthful of meat and potatoes. He pours himself more wine. 

“Sorrysorrysorry,” Theon mumbles into the bedding, another wave of desolation crashing through him. Can’t even put together a decent plate of food. Fuck. Despite knowing that it’s possibly the worst thing he could do at this moment, he starts to cry. Properly cry, with huge tears and snot and wracking sobs that he can’t entirely mute. He squeezes handfuls of furs and tries desperately to get a grip on himself. If he’s annoying or if he fails to make Ramsay happy, he could be handed back over to Roose, who would surely get rid of him one way or another. He  _ has _ to be good.

“Were there any of those ginger- Theon?” Ramsay pauses midsentence. “Hey, Theon?” There’s the scrape of chair legs on stone as he stands up. Theon turns his face away, hiding under a fold of bed linen. Ramsay unravels him with firm but gentle hands. “Squidling… what’s the matter?” 

“I fucked up!” Theon wails, finally letting the tears fall now that there’s no hope of hiding it any more. “I fucked up and you’re so angry with me and I ruined it all and I’m sorry, Ram! I’m sorry!” He sniffs back an ocean of snot and coughs wetly into his hands. Ramsay sits on the bed with him and hands him a corner of bedsheet to wipe his nose with. 

"Oh, Thee… come here, pretty boy," fed and fucked, Ramsay is calm, softer. He spreads his arms invitingly. "I missed you."

"I missed you too! So much!" Theon crawls onto his knees and clings to him. Ramsay gathers him up into a hug and lifts him onto his lap, stroking his hair and kissing the side of his face. “I just wanted to be good for you,” he dissolves into another round of sobs. “Please don’t send me away!”

“Shush now,” Ramsay rocks him like a babe in arms. “Shush Thee, it’s okay. It’s okay.” He kisses the tip of Theon’s nose. “I know you’re a good boy. You’re my beautiful, perfect Theon, and I love you.” Another kiss. “Surely you know that?” Theon nods miserably, still fighting back the sobs. He clutches onto Ramsay’s arms and presses his wet cheek against his chest, inhaling deep, soothing breaths of the smell of him. Ramsay strokes his hands gently over his body, cuddling him close. “When did you last eat, squidling?”

A sniffle. “Um… yesterday? We had the scraps from the great hall. Pheasant and pigeon and mashed turnips with greens.”

A slight frown. “You need to eat, sweetness. Properly, not just scraps. Come on.” Ramsay scoots to the edge of the bed and stands, carrying Theon with apparent ease over to the table by the window. He keeps Theon on his lap as he takes a seat and starts to choose morsels to give him.  Ramsay handfeeds Theon a particularly good piece of meat from the pastry and Theon licks at his fingers like a puppy, earning himself a smile and another tidbit. 

The food helps settle his nerves and Theon can feel his heart slowing back to a normal rhythm, his breathing quieten down. He bites his lip. "I'm... I'm sorry, Ram."

"Hmmn?" Ramsay is pouring wine one-handed, with mixed success. 

"About... about spilling so soon?" Theon squirms in his arms, blushing again. His blush goes all the way down to his thighs. 

Ramsay takes a long swallow. "I wanted to watch you come for me.” He smirks, “I suppose I got what I wanted - in a fashion.” He tickles Theon’s ribs, making him squirm and flail. “But yes, I wanted you get you all worked up,” his hand slides down the flat of Theon’s belly, “and  _ desperate _ ,” a grab at the inside of his thigh, “and you’d be so pretty and flushed and begging me to let you come…” The slightest trace of the back of his fingers trailing over his balls. Theon twitches, trying to both push himself further into Ramsay’s touch and obediently hold still at the same time. 

“And then eventually, finally, I’d tell you to make yourself come for me,” Ramsay’s fingers ghost around the curve of the top of his thigh and across the fuzz of his pubis to dip down again on the other side, completely missing where Theon actually wants to be touched. “And you’d take hold of yourself and touch yourself and stroke yourself and I’d tell you to look me in the eye when you reach the moment of spilling....” Ramsay is kneading at his thigh, rubbing his flesh with the same steady and firm motions that Theon wants him to use on his cock. He squeezes. “And you’d look at me with those fucking pretty eyes and you’d moan out and you’d spill all over your fingers for me, wave after wave of it, and make me want to put my mouth around you and suck you clean,” Ramsay lifts Theon’s hand to his mouth and laps at his thumb, swirling his tongue around the pad and sucking lightly on it, demonstrating. Theon shivers, not quite holding back an ‘oh’ of pure arousal. 

Ramsay grins at him, still sucking on his thumb, then pulls off with an obscenely loud slurp. “And you’d lick your fingers clean for me, and I’d lean in to kiss you so I could taste you in your own mouth…” he pulls Theon closer and presses a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. Theon opens his mouth and slowly, teasingly, Ramsay lets him taste his tongue - just a hint of what he could have had. He pulls back after far too short a moment, leaving Theon gasping. “Would you have liked that, Thee?” His eyes are large and round, almost worried and he nibbles anxiously at the tip of one finger.

Theon swallows. “Yes.” He clears this throat. “Fuck..  _ yes _ , Ram. Yes.” He’s hard again and Ramsay knows it but isn’t acknowledging it at all; he’s just slowly kneading at the top of his thigh, a small squeeze and then a shift to the other thigh, always just -  _ just  _ \- missing touching him. 

The hand disappears. Ramsay’s hard, steely eyes bore into him. “Do it then.”

“Do…?” Theon blinks. It’s not been long since his… embarrassment, and although he’s definitely turned on, it’s a bit of a fast turnaround. 

“Make yourself come for me, Theon.” It’s an order. A cordial one, at the moment, but an order nonetheless. Ramsay looks him up and down, possessive, challenging. He picks up Theon’s hand again, and shoves it towards his cock. “Come for me. I want to see you do it.”

Theon’s fingers automatically wrap around his length and he gives himself a couple of tentative strokes, not quite sure that Ramsay isn’t going to twist this around and punish him for being such a desperate little slut. But Ramsay almost purrs in approval, his pupils blown wide and spots of colour flushing the tops of his cheekbones. Theon shifts his position slightly, sliding further onto his back and opening his legs to give Ramsay a better view. He sets to work. _ Touch yourself. Make yourself come. I want to see it. _ He looks up at Ramsay’s pale eyes staring greedily at him. Being watched, being stared at, looked at like an animal in a cage, like a _ freak. _

Come and see the slut! World’s most depraved man, unable to go a single hour without abusing himself! See the invert Ironborn, the shame of Pyke as he debases himself before any and all onlookers! He groans a little and the fantasy shifts, he’s in the guards’ mess, on a makeshift stage of two stacked tables, lying on his back and wanking his cock while the whole Dreadfort army watch and hoot and catcall and ridicule him. He can feel the waves of disgust, horror, repulsion and taunting pouring off them, the mocking encouragement and the bitter, spiteful loathing. Men turn their faces away, unable to stomach the Kraken Prince squirming about on his back, preparing to loose his horde of sticky white ink over himself. Sergeants drape an arm over their wayward recruits’ shoulders and tell them that this fate will await them if they don’t sort themselves out. Women cover their faces, trembling at their beau’s stark loss of dignity and shame. 

His nose tickles and he lets go to knuckle at it, quickly grabbing his cock again as Ramsay rumbles an objection. He’s on the dais in Winterfell, Ned Stark and his sour-faced wife and his perfect,  _ perfect _ fucking children all in a row and he’s on his knees in the rainbow light of the window of the Seven with his breeches around his calves and his cock in hand and he can’t stop, can’t stop even though they’re all horrified and disgusted with him but he’s so close now and Ned is gesturing for his sword as if he was going to finally carry out that impossible threat and Catelyn is holding her youngest to her, trying to stop them from looking and Arya is laughing at him, pointing and  _ laughing _ and grinning around at everyone like it’s all a huge joke. And Sansa stares, stony-faced - he’d once hoped that he might have been made to marry her, but she’d never have him now, never look him in the eye again. Robb has an uncertain grin on his face - another of Theon’s terrible jokes gone wrong. But this is no joke and he’s still wanking, still feverishly yanking at himself and then his eyes meet Jon  _ fucking _ Snow with his perfect fucking face and his fucking  _ cunting _ ‘honour’ and his soulful bastard’s eyes and  _ fuck _ , he just wants to spurt his filthy, disgusting, shameful, corrupted seed all over the cunt’s smug, uptight fucking  _ face _ because fuck knows it’ll be the only time he’d ever be involved in something so debauched and offensive and he’s coming and he’s  _ coming _ and fuck,  _ fuck, fuck _ .

Theon drags his eyes open just in time to see Ramsay’s gleeful grin as the last pulse or so of his orgasm pumps out onto his hand. His heart is racing and he’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat and shaking slightly. He lifts his hand to his mouth and licks his palm and fingers clean, working his tongue right between the knuckles. Ramsay pulls him up with a hair grab and kisses him deeply. “Fuck yes, fuck you’re beautiful.” A breathy whisper that gives Theon goosebumps.  _ Good boy, Theon. _

He flops back in Ramsay’s arms, panting, all limbs suddenly boneless from the intensity of coming a second time after waiting so long. Ramsay nuzzles into the crook of his neck and coaxes him into trying a few of the sweet pastries. Theon curls up in his arms and inhales his closeness while the sweat and seed cool and dry on his skin. They cuddle in the afternoon sunlight in Ramsay’s armchair by the window until there’s a tentative tap at the door. 

Theon slides to the floor and into a leggy heap, finding some relative cover under the table. Ramsay puts his feet up on the table and leans back into a relaxed slouch. “What?” he barks in a tone that does  _ not  _ invite entry. A muffled voice murmurs indistinctly through the door. Ramsay sighs heavily and shouts, “Speak  _ up _ !”

The latch rattles and the door opens a fraction; just enough to show a nervous eye and half a mouth. “M’lord, your lord father, Roose Bolton, requests your presence in his solar at your earliest convenience?” 

Ramsay snorts. “My earliest convenience?” He drains the last of his cup. “So I’ll see him tomorrow.” He flashes a wink down at Theon. 

There’s a dismayed squeak from behind the door. “Um, m’lord… I believe Lord Bolton was expecting you somewhat… sooner?”

“Yes, yes…” Ramsay stands and stretches - still entirely naked. There’s an astonished gasp and then the door slams shut. “Tell him I’m on my way!” Ramsay yells. Footsteps scuttle down the stairs. He bursts out laughing. 

“You’re terrible…” Theon shakes his head as he climbs out from under the table, “she was practically a child!”

“Eh, if she hasn’t already, she’ll meet a naked man sooner or later, and you know she’s in no danger from me,” Ramsay shrugs and turns to his wardrobes, digging out fresh clothes and starting to dress. 

“She doesn’t know that!” Theon scolds him with a grin. “Must you terrorise  _ every _ maid in the keep?”

“It keeps us safe, lovely.” Ramsay glances at himself in his looking glass and finger-combs his hair into a slightly tamer shade of scruffy. “And it’s fucking funny.”

“Oh come here…” Theon pulls on his breeches and pads over in bare feet to help. “How do you manage to get it so tangled when it’s so short?” He brushes and pats Ramsay’s hair into submission and kisses him on the forehead. “Try not to get too pissed off with Roose, okay?”

“Eh, I make no promises.” Ramsay spreads his arms to gesture at himself, cocking his head. “Acceptable?”

“You’ll do.” Theon straightens the fall of his shirt and steps back, nodding approvingly. 

Ramsay picks up his Bolton pin and turns back to the glass, fumbling with the fastening. “I want you to come again for me before I get back.”

Theon chuckles. “Yeah, right. Sure.”

There’s a pause that’s just a bit too long. Ramsay continues to fuss with his pin, not turning to look at Theon. “I mean it. I want you to come again for me.”

“R-Really?” Theon stammers, “Ram, I don’t know…”

“You managed to spill everywhere before we even started! don’t tell me Theon Greyjoy and his infamous cock doesn’t have it in him,” Ramsay teases, but with a hint of dangerous growl in his voice. He turns away from the mirror and strides to the door. “I’ll expect to see you wearing the evidence when I get back. No excuses. Failure will earn punishment.” 

His hand brushes over his belt knife and Theon’s not sure if it was intentional or if it’s just his own overactive imagination that made the gesture jump out at him. He hangs his head.There’s just no arguing when Ramsay sets him a challenge like this. “Yes m’lord.”

Ramsay leaves the room without another glance, leaving Theon to get on with his task alone.

He flops irritably onto the bed and stares at the ceiling for a while, mentally grumbling at Ramsay and his ridiculous assignments; simultaneously feeling a small unfurling of thrill at being ordered to do something like this. He wriggles out of his breeches and kicks them to the floor. His hand feels rough and clumsy on his cock, and he jiggles it around, playing with its softness flopping around in his hand. 

This is no good at all.  _ Come on, Greyjoy, concentrate!  _ Theon takes a breath and casts about for a fantasy. He’s on his knees in the sept, being buggered by the Smith while his mouth sucks on the Father’s cock.  _ No, fuck! Not the father! _ The anonymous priest in his mind’s eye takes on Balon’s face and Theon grimaces, turning his face aside as if he could look away from the images inside his head. 

Okay. so. He’s in the belly of a ship, it’s dark and damp and hot and cramped with cargo and sailors’ packs. A hand in the dark reaches out to him, squeezes his thigh. He nudges his leg towards the unseen suitor, accepting his unspoken advance. And then he’s pulled roughly to his knees and his coarse canvas trousers are yanked down his thighs. Rough, calloused fingers slicked with lamp oil worm between his arse cheeks and press into him. He’s fucked silently in the dark with only the smallest of grunts as he’s spilled into. And then left, abandoned. Not a word. Not a gentle caress. Certainly not a thought for his own pleasure. Just a body to be fucked as thoughtlessly as a chair is sat on or a privy is pissed into.  _ Used and left _ . His hand pumps hard on his cock. He’s mostly hard now, but this is one of his favourite fantasies and he’s not anywhere near actually coming. And his prick is definitely feeling the friction. 

With a frustrated grunt, Theon rolls over and finds his bottle of oil. He greases himself up and sets manfully to work, descending into his imagination again. 

He’s tied spreadeagled over a table. Ankles roped to the table legs, spreading his own legs uncomfortably wide, wrists chained to the far corners, pulling his arms apart. He’s wearing nothing but a sack over his head and his backside drips with oil and grease. He’s in the centre of a large room full of people, a feast or a wedding, something full of the highborn classes. They’re mingling and socialising and making polite conversation and there he is, stripped and secured and spread and slicked for all to see. The wine and spirits are flowing and as the party continues, eventually they start to use him. At first tentative pokes and strokes, light touches, just to see whether it’s allowed. Someone grabs his cock and there’s a wave of shocked laughter. Then, when he fails to respond, more grabs. The touches become slaps and the slaps become punches. The strokes of his cock turn into bruisingly hard squeezes. Someone inevitably sticks something up his arse. It must be incongruous because of the burst of laughter from all sides. It’s removed and replaced roughly with something else. Bigger, more awkwardly shaped. That’s snatched away and someone starts to fuck him, while his friends loudly and drunkenly cheer him on and then forcibly drag him away, leaving Theon gaping and clenching and cold and humiliated. Someone else comes up to have a go. He wonders who it is. Wonders if he knows him. Would it make any difference if he did? Would he call out his word and stop it all if it was someone awful? Robb? Roose? Ned Stark? His father? Tears flow down his cheeks inside the dark sack and he rests his head on the smooth tabletop and sobs because he knows that he wouldn’t stop it for any of them. Wouldn’t say no to any of it. Wouldn’t--

Ramsay’s footsteps on the stairs. He has a distinctive tread and Theon’s had a long time to learn to listen out for any hint of him being near. He  _ can’t _ be back already! But a glance round the room at the shadows stretching across the floor shows that it’s been some time since he left. He groans. Ramsay’s nearly back and he hasn’t come yet. He’s failed his task. He’s disappointed him again. He’ll be punished. He’ll be ridiculed. He’ll be bruised and battered and fucked - or  _ not _ fucked. 

Theon pumps furiously at his cock but it’s just too late. Ramsay comes in and glances at him for a moment. There’s no way he can hide his failure. “Ram, I… I nearly…” he starts to stammer out apologies, but Ramsay just turns away, kicks off his boots and sits himself down at his desk, spreading out a sheaf of papers. 

“Ram?” Theon tries again, but he’s solidly ignored. Realisation slowly dawns. This is a fairly usual punishment. Fail to follow out the order and you simply don’t exist. He won’t get any attention until he’s finished his task. Chastened, he sits back on the bed, leaning against the headboard, and takes his sore cock back in hand. 

It hurts. It’s not hideous pain, but it’s distinctly uncomfortable. The skin is becoming tender, like feet just in the first few minutes of new boots. No where near the blister stage, but at the point where you can definitely feel where the blisters are going to be. He tips more oil into his hand. It’s humiliating, sitting here in plain view, in silence, wanking himself almost unwillingly.  _ Masturape _ . Forced to touch himself.  _ Made _ to perform obscene acts…

He’s in the great hall, on the top table, raised above the rest of the seating. He’s naked from the waist down and everyone on the long ranks of tables in the call can see. He fists his cock under the tablecloth, hiding his actions from the refined ladies on either side of him, but totally open to view and commentary and mocking from all of the commonfolk before him. His face burns with embarrassment but he’s possessed, enchanted, bewitched. He knows it’s wrong, but he simply cannot stop. No matter how he wills his hand to let go, no matter how he tries to still the motion of his arm and wrist, he just keeps on jerking away. People are openly laughing at him, the squidlord and his tiny tentacle. The pervert prince. He’s still wanking. Tears fall down his face in shame but still his hand pumps away. He’s gone beyond all social niceties. He’s  _ filth _ . Disgusting. Dirty. Tainted. No one wants to be associated with him. He’ll ruin good names and reputations simply by being mentioned alongside them. He’s contaminated,  _ contagious _ . And he’s coming. In front of everyone, he’s coming, coming at last. 

The orgasm is brief. More of a shuddering ache than a climactic release. His balls contract painfully tightly and cough up a begrudging trickle of thin, pale seed. He gasps, more in relief of actually managing it, than in any kind of pleasure. He lets his body fall sideways and then rolls onto his back. “I’m done, Ram,” he calls out. He completed the task. Now for his reward.

“Hmmn?” Ramsay asks, not glancing up from his work. 

“I did it. I came again for you.” Theon swipes up the little fingerful of seed on his stomach and holds it out as evidence. 

“Oh. Good good.” Ramsay turns a page, but not his head. He’s totally disinterested. Theon feels like he could cry. Or punch him. Instead he walks on shaky legs over to Ramsay and wipes his sticky finger on his smug fucking face. He wanted it so much, he can have the fucking stuff. 

Ramsay stares at him in utter stillness and silence. Then his face creases into a grin and he chuckles, pulling Theon into a hug. “You cheeky little shit,” he grumbles with surprising good grace. “Clean that up, now.” He taps his cheek and Theon licks it clean, pulling Ramsay’s chin round so that he can kiss him properly. Ramsay tastes of rosemary and burnt meat - he’s been picking at a roast from the kitchens. 

“Help me with this crap, and then we’ll go to bed?” Ramsay pulls a paper full of columns of numbers and waves his hands hopelessly over it. 

“So basically, ‘Theon, do my work for me because I want to sleep’, huh?” Theon sits on his lap, turns the paper for a better view and frowns at the figures. “You’re so shit a arithmetic, Ram! Gods, look, you’re out by hundreds on this one…” He mumbles to himself as he dips a pen and makes corrections. Ramsay strokes his thigh and nods his head in all the right places while Theon tries to explain just how he’d got each calculation wrong and how to do it properly, but they both know he isn’t taking a blind bit of notice. He’s far too interested in kneading at Theon’s arse. 

With fresh eyes at the helm, the work doesn’t take long and as Theon blots the ink on the last few figures, Ramsay wraps his arms around him and nibbles at his neck, just below his ear. “Fuck, I missed you. Be with me always?”

“Always,” Theon agrees, letting his head tip back and shaking out his hand and wrist which are starting to cramp from writing - and other things. 

“Good. Come and be with me in bed, I’m knackered.” Ramsay tips him off his lap and pads away to the privy, leaving Theon to tidy up the paperwork and the rest of the room, and set the tray of mostly-eaten food outside the door, and bank up the fire for the night, and unlace Ramsay’s boots properly so he’ll actually be able to put them on in the morning instead of yanking at them and swearing until Theon unknots them for him, and unload his pockets of coins, knives and - oddly - a small carved wooden rabbit, before setting the dirty clothes aside to be taken to be washed tomorrow, and all the other small tasks that made him feel like he was useful and that he  _ belonged _ . Ramsay always said he should have been a housekeeper’s get - he’d have made an excellent manservant.

Theon’s remade the bed and got into it by the time Ramsay re-emerges, holding a large white candle which is notched at regular intervals and looks vaguely familiar, though Theon can’t place it. He quirks an eyebrow quizzically at Ramsay, who grins brightly back at him and sits cross-legged on the bed. His enthusiasm is slightly unnerving and Theon eyes up the width of the candle, wondering where he’s planning on putting it.

“Know what this is?” Theon shakes his head. “It’s a septon’s prayer candle. It burns for seven hours and every time the flame reaches a notch, the septons do a prayer or a song or a dance or whatever it is that septons do.” He flaps his hands dismissively. The Boltons have never taken much interest in religion, though their names have been screamed to the gods for centuries. “Anyway. You have to come for me again before the candle burns out.” He reaches across Theon to set it ominously on the chest of drawers next to the bed.

Theon gapes at him. “Again, Ram?” He rubs at his neck. “I really--”

“Again.” Ramsay’s tone is authoritative. “You spill yourself all over me without permission and you think you have any say over when or where you come next?” He shakes his head. “You silly boy.”

“But I don’t think it’s actually physically  _ possible, _ Ram!” Theon protests.

“You come again before that candle burns out or you’re not coming again for a whole month, Greyjoy,” Ramsay growls at him. 

Theon smirks. “I’m not sure that’s physically possible either…” 

Ramsay is not laughing. “Oh it will be. I have…  _ devices _ . You’ve met a couple of the nicer ones, but I can dig out the unpleasant ones too.” He’s not joking and Theon has no wish to be locked into another metal belt that crushes his cock every time it tries to swell. 

“I just don’t think that…” he begins.

“Good!” Ramsay interrupts. “Don’t think. Just come for me. Before the candle burns out. Or can’t you do it?” he challenges. There’s a pause while Theon glances between him and the candle, weighing it all up. Seven hours… He’s got all night. The maids will be round with wash water and firewood in about six hours. Perhaps if he sleeps until then he can squeeze out a quick one in the morning after a night’s recovery.

Ramsay’s stare is becoming impatient. Theon nods. “I can do it.”  _ Fuck, I hope I can. _

“Good boy! I know you can. Don’t let me down, you’ll regret it.” A threatening growl that promises an elaborately uncomfortable punishment. “But I’ll make success worth your while” A filthy wink that makes Theon’s stomach lurch. 

“You’d better…” Theon mumbles, eyeing up the candle some more.  

Ramsay crawls into the bed with entirely too much bouncing of the mattress and wrestling with the sheets and furs. “Go and light it then, squidling. Get it going.” He prods Theon with his feet, nudging him out of bed. 

With a melodramatic sigh, Theon gets up and reaches for the candle but wobbles on a stiff ankle and knocks it off the chest. It clatters to the floor, broken in two. “Drowned fuck!”

“What have you done?” Ramsay peers over the side of the bed. Theon holds up the candle, the sections linked by wick. “Oh dear…” Ramsay whistles through his teeth, taking it from him. “This was such a pain to steal, too.” 

“We can probably repair it with a hot knife.” Theon crosses the room and holds one near the glowing base of the fire. “Melt the break and stick it back together.” He carefully hands the hot blade to Ramsay, hilt first. Ramsay takes it from him and runs the knife around the break in the candle. 

“Oh. Whoops.” He doesn’t sound apologetic at all as he holds out two entirely separate pieces, broken at about four and a bit notches. 

“You prick, you could have saved it,” Theon laughs. “We’ll have to get another one and do it some other time.”

“Oh no. You’re still doing it.” Ramsay flashes a predator’s smirk at him. “You’ll just have less time.”

Theon pouts. “That’s not fair!”

“You broke my fucking candle!”

Theon spreads his hands. “I didn’t mean to!”

“Like you didn’t mean to come all over me this morning?” Ramsay counters, head cocked. “Orders still stand, little squid. You’ve got until the candle burns out. Or you can take the forfeit. It’s up to you.”

Theon shifts uncomfortably. Four and a bit hours was a lot shorter than seven. But then, Ramsay’s forfeits were usually not at all fun. Well, fun in that it was always fun to be made to do something he didn’t like, but being made to come again was probably a better option than being made to sweep the entire training courtyard with a dustpan and brush while the guard was doing drill. And not coming for a month -  _ forcibly _ not coming - was not something he wanted to contemplate. 

He sighs and shakes his head. “I’ll go with candle. You prick.” 

Ramsay beams at him. “I knew you would.” He shuffles to the edge of the bed and kneels to pull Theon into a kiss, reaching down to grab at his arse. “It’ll be worth it. If you manage it.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Theon pushes him away. “Go and light it for me, I need to piss.” He trudges to the privy while, with entirely too much enthusiasm, Ramsay crosses the room to light the candle from the fire.

The candle is burning brightly when Theon returns to find Ramsay leaning on the windowsill, staring out at the darkened keep. He reaches out for Theon’s hand and pulls him to stand with him. “All those people…” He leans against the stone, “all those people to look after and watch over and make decisions for. Don’t you sometimes feel it’s too much?”

Theon nods, wrapping an arm around Ramsay’s waist. “Far too much. Why do you think I’m hiding here in the Dreadfort being your pet instead of being Lord Greyjoy’s heir?”

“Because you’re a fucking shit Ironman and Balon would probably castrate you if he didn’t think I’d already done it for him, and pretty much everyone in the North wants to murder you,” Ramsay teases. “And you’re an utter perverted slut and you love me.”

“Well yes, that too.” Theon agrees, “but also, looking after people is hard.”

“You look after me pretty well.” Ramsay kisses him on the side of the head. “Cleaning my boots and getting my breakfast. Don’t think I don’t notice everything you do for me.”

Theon smiles shyly. “You just need feeding and fucking. That’s easy. People out there want floods stopped and rain for crops and armies to stop raping their daughters. Impossible things. And they never stop wanting.”

“No. They never stop wanting.” Ramsay stares back out the window. 

Theon takes him by the hand. “Come on, go to bed.” He turns to lead Ramsay there and notices the candle. It looks surprisingly short. Less than three notches short. “You bastard! You put up the wrong half!”

“Hmmn?” Ramsay holds up the longer piece of candle, looking at it in mock confusion. “Oh. Silly me!” He drops it out of the window. “Whoops. Better get busy, squidness.” He gives Theon a wide shit-eating grin and saunters past to climb into bed. 

“You… You…” Theon has no words. “ _ Ramsay _ !”

“Orders stand, Greyjoy!” Ramsay calls over his shoulder as he snuggles down into his furs. 

“Fuck!” Theon kicks a chair, making it topple noisily onto the floor. 

“Keep it down, love, people are trying to sleep,” Ramsay snickers from under the covers. 

Theon slumps into the armchair with a huff, almost on the verge of sulking.  _ Fucking _ Ramsay and his  _ fucking _ orders and how  _ fucking _ hot it is the more  _ fucking _ impossible he is. He considers wine, but while it might help him loosen up it certainly won’t make him any more responsive. With a resigned sigh, he pads across the room to find oil; he’s gonna need it. Ramsay starts to snore. After a moment’s hesitation, Theon gets into bed next to him, takes a hold of his abused cock and shuts his eyes. 

He’s in the godswood. Bound to the heart tree with his wrists stretched up above his head and a loop of rope around his neck. His legs are wrapped around Ramsay’s hips and he’s being fucked hard into the rough bark of the Bolton’s weirwood, moaning out obscenities and blasphemy as Ramsay calls the Old Gods to witness their union and bless or curse them as they see fit. Violent gusts of wind whip the upper branches into a frenzy of rustling leaves and creaking boughs, but Theon can’t tell if the gods are pleased with or appalled by them, but as long as Ramsay’s still fucking him it hardly seems to matter. 

He’s standing in the mud and rain in the training yard at Winterfell, covered in padding and wielding a huge wooden sword while Jon Snow charges at him, screaming that he’s going to pound him into the dirt. He’s hard and everyone is going to see and he brings his knees together and hunches over his crotch to try to hide it and gets yelled at for cowering but it wouldn’t make any difference, Jon is upon him, a feint with the sword followed by a vicious clout to the side of the padded helmet with the edge of his shield that sends Theon stumbling to the ground. He twists as he falls to hide his traitorous cock and lands face down. Jon falls heavily onto his back, tossing sword and shield aside to grip him by the scruff of the neck and rub his face into the mud. He’s sat on Theon’s thighs and his crotch must be inches from Theon’s arse and he’s hard, so hard, while Jon wrestles him into a hold he can’t escape from and holds him down and presses his wooden dagger to his throat and tells him that he’s dead and everyone laughs and laughs at the fourteen year old boy besting the eighteen year old man and Theon’s face burns with humiliation and arousal until he welcomes the rain which cools his hot cheeks and hides his tears. 

He’s a slave in Essos, sold to one of the pleasure houses and chained on his knees behind a hole in a wall where men come to get their cocks sucked. His hands are shackled behind his back and all he can do is open his mouth and lick and suck and nuzzle at whatever gets put through the hole, no matter how dirty or putrid it may be. He’s held his mouth open so much that he can barely close it any more. No one speaks his language and he can’t understand anything they say but he doesn’t need to, all he needs to do is open up and suck or let them fuck his throat. He hasn’t spoken in years, hasn’t seen a face in months, only cock after cock after cock. That’s all he’s good for. That’s all he’s for. That’s all he is.  _ That’s all _ . 

He’s fucking Sansa Stark and her long red hair is wrapped twice around his fist so that he can pull her head back and stare at her tits which jiggle with every thrust he pounds into her and he’s moaning and crying out that he’s her brother and he shouldn’t but her legs are clamped around his hips and she’s pulling him deeper into her with every stroke and she’s shaking in pleasure and crying in horror and she’s beautiful and tainted and perfect. 

Roose holds him with a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet and a knife at his throat to keep him obedient. He’s bent double and stripped and greased with cold efficiency and the cock that’s pushed into him is equally hard and methodical and the Leech Lord makes no sound beyond the panting of his breath as he fucks Theon to his knees and spills himself inside him. His withdrawal is abrupt and he’s tucked away and fully dressed before Theon can even turn to face him. Dazed, Theon pulls up his breeches and is shoved back out into the bright sunlight of the courtyard. Ramsay rides up to him, smiling warmly and leading Theon’s horse. They’re going to go for a ride, going to find some privacy to kiss and fuck and cling to each other. People offer Reek pitying glances as the Bastard drags him out of the keep but he’s not Ramsay’s captive; he’s Roose’s.

He’s in the sea, in the arms of a Drowned Man, being pushed under the water to be given to the Drowned God and as he leans back and the water laps at the sides of his head and splashes over his face and closes in over him, he opens his mouth and lets the salt flood into him - but it isn’t salt, it’s seed, he’s being drowned in an ocean of seed from every time he’s taken up his arse, swallowed, worn on his skin or had smeared over him in all of his filthy, disgusting life. When his lungs are bursting he gives in and finally takes a breath, dragging the thick globules of seed deep into his lungs and giving his whole life to it. Drenched in come. Drowned in it. Given to the God of Ejaculate and risen again,  _ harder _ than before. 

He’s in bed in Balon comes into his room again and gets in behind him and he tries so hard to be asleep,  _ be asleep _ , so that maybe this time he’ll just go away. But it’s no use and he can feel the bed shift as his father shuffles closer until his belly’s pressed against Theon’s back and it doesn’t matter how tight he ties the drawstring of his nightclothes or how many layers of smallclothes he puts on because that creeping, probing hand will always, always, worm its way into them eventually. He lies dead still in the darkness and stares at the wall while Balon touches him and strokes at him and he can feel the bed rocking with the movement of him touching himself and he’s hard in that calloused hand and he  _ hates _ it - hates how it feels good and if it feels good then he must like it and that must be why he can never push him away or make himself get out of bed and leave the room and why he always stays here, dead still, dead silent and lets his father do whatever he wants until his body jerks and he spills into that horrible, grasping hand and even after that he lies still, still, still, just listening to Balon lick his fingers and jerk himself faster until he’s done too and then he’ll finally finally leave - until next time. 

He’s dead. He’s on a table in the maester’s room, covered only by a sheet, body wasted and too weak to move. His heart has stopped. He’s not breathing. They all think he’s dead. The maester washes him with pine water and anoints him with oil ready for his pyre. He is unmoved by Theon’s death. He leaves and Theon is alone, alone on this mortuary table, wrapped in his shroud, awaiting cremation and to submit his soul to any god that may want to take it and Ramsay comes in. He comes in and strokes Theon’s bruised and battered body with all the tenderness his scarred Bolton heart can manage. He lays a kiss on those cold lips and unwraps the sheets from his body. Ramsay fucks him. One last time, with his body stiff and lifeless and unresponsive, but he still fucks him, takes that last, final, piece of pleasure from him and leaves his hot seed buried in him to take into the flames. 

Ramsay’s ordered him to come. He has to make himself come or he’ll be punished again and it won’t be a fun “woe is me, oh noes!” punishment, but a proper, horrible, painful, backbreaking punishment that only a Bolton could devise. But he’s spent and empty and every stroke of his hand on his cock burns with friction and he’s pulled at himself so much already that he’s practically numb but Ramsay is standing there, holding an hourglass which is rapidly emptying and with every grain of sand that falls he gets more angry and more impatient and Theon is jerking, tugging frantically at himself, trying desperately to think of something -  _ anything _ \- that is filthy enough to capture his jaded imagination and help him to get off but he’s empty and broken and hollow and nothing works, nothing is dirty or perverted enough that he hasn’t fantasised about it a thousand times before and he’s got  _ nothing _ , nothing left at all and he’s really starting to wonder if perhaps he’ll never come again, perhaps he’s taken the hedonism all too far and ruined himself forever and now he’s panting or moaning or sobbing or some twisted combination of the three and…

“Will you shut up?” Ramsay barks at him, whacking him across the face with a pillow. 

Theon grunts a surprised yell but doesn’t stop his mechanical pumping at his cock. “I’m never going to manage it if I do…” he huffs out. Anxiously, he glances at the candle again. He has just under one notch left.

Ramsay rolls over to face him and smirks. “Struggling, are we?” He grins a victorious, totally unrepentant smile. 

Theon flops onto his back, still wanking. “You  _ know _ I am, you bastard,” he growls, squinting as sweat drips into his eye. He rubs furiously at it with his other hand. 

“You look stressed.” Ramsay props his head up on one hand, an utter picture of relaxation. 

“Really? Wow, I wonder why!” Theon snaps at him. Ramsay just chuckles and runs his eyes slowly down and back up his body, then gives him a teasing wink. Theon glares back. “You gonna just lie there and watch or help me out here?”

“Are you asking me for help?” Ramsay cocks his head. 

Theon looks at the candle again. “Yes, I’m asking you for help. I need it.” He pauses, letting go of his cock. “Am I in trouble for asking?”

“Absolutely. Soooo much trouble.” Ramsay nods with a grin. “Don’t be silly, I’ve been waiting for you to beg me to help you since you started.” Ramsay hops up onto his knees and rubs his hands together eagerly. 

Theon flails back and lies with his arms above his head, defeated. “Oh yeah, sure. All that snoring was you waiting in anticipation.”

“Be nice, you, I’m doing you a favour.” Ramsay crawls down the bed and lifts one of Theon’s legs over him, so he’s kneeling between his thighs. 

“Careful! It’s really tender down there…” Theon flinches as Ramsay brushes his fingers down his body, tensing up and trying to look down at what he’s doing”

“I’ll be careful. Just lie back and relax. I’m gonna look after you.” Ramsay digs around in the bedding until he finds Theon’s bottle of oil and he pours a generous amount into his hands. Theon tentatively obeys, exhaling deeply to try to loosen his body. 

With soft hands, Ramsay spreads oil onto Theon’s belly and massages it down his hips and the tops of his legs, then round his inner thighs and up to his arse. He takes his time kneading and stroking at Theon’s skin, again avoiding any contact with his cock, but spending generous time on his balls and backside. Theon sighs as his body relaxes, and he shifts his legs slightly further apart. Ramsay weaves his arm under Theon’s knee and reaches around his thigh to trace circles on his hip. His other hand slides up between Theon’s cheeks, slowly, slowly advancing and retreating and advancing again. 

Theon rocks his hips gently, trying to get Ramsay’s fingers to where he wants them, and finally, Ramsay holds his finger firm against his hole and lets Theon push himself down and open up around it, letting out a tiny satisfied moan as he does so. Theon wiggles slightly side to side, wanting more. 

Teasing, Ramsay withdraws and goes back to massaging Theon’s skin for a while before slowly pushing back up into him, making him whine again. He probes and pulls, opening him up as gently as if he’d never had anything inside him before. Like he was a maiden. An innocent. It had been a long time since Theon had felt innocent. He sighs and relaxes, letting himself be explored. 

Ramsay nudges a second finger up against the first and waits there as if asking permission. Theon rocks himself down onto it, accepting the invitation. Ramsay pushes in slowly with a twist, curving his fingers around the tight muscle and investigating the softer, more yielding flesh beyond. He slowly rotates his wrist until his palm is up and then slowly, teasingly presses upwards. Theon’s lips curve into a wide smile and he opens his legs again. 

With gentle confidence, Ramsay strokes at and pulses his fingers against the area Theon called the ‘crabapple’. He probes out the edges and the cleft down the middle and then rocks his fingers gently over it, forming a slow rhythm. Theon moans his enjoyment and moves his body to match Ramsay’s motions, putting his body onto the places that feel best to him. 

“Feel better, sweetness?” Ramsay murmurs, not wanting to interrupt his mood too much. Theon nods emphatically. “Gonna come for me?” Ramsay presses up harder, teasing. Theon gasps. 

“Yes, please, Ram…” He pushes himself against Ramsay’s fingers until it’s on the verge of hurting, savouring every part it. Ramsay wriggles up onto his knees, holding his hand as still as possible while he shifts position. He shuffles further up Theon’s body and lowers his head to lick gently at his cock. 

Theon flinches at first - his skin really is red raw - but Ramsay is gentle and soft and uses his tongue carefully to cover every bit of skin with soothing, slick saliva. He starts to pulse his fingers inside Theon again as he lowers his mouth around Theon’s cock and swirls his tongue up against the sensitive underside. Theon hisses and makes a grab for Ramsay’s head - it’s too much. Even the gentleness of his mouth feels too raw and painful to be enjoyable right now. Ramsay comes off immediately and renews his focus on Theon’s arse. 

“Tell me what you were thinking of?” he asks quietly, watching Theon’s body respond to his touches. 

“Weh?” Theon raises his head to look down at him, confused.

“Tell me what you were thinking of when you were trying by yourself.”

“Oh.” Theon rests his head back and blushes deep red. “Do I have to?”

Ramsay smirks. “You don’t have to, but saying that just makes me  _ really _ want to know.” He twists his hand a little, finding a new angle. Theon lets out a squeak, gripping the sheets. 

“Just…” he pants, “just more of the usual, mostly.”

“The usual?” Ramsay presses at that angle again, enjoying the full body twitch that it elicits. “So… let me guess… You’re tied up and being fucked by the army?” He increases the speed of his fingers. 

Theon nods, biting his lip. “Yeah, yeah, something like that.” He lets out a gasp and pushes himself hard down onto Ramsay’s fingers again. 

“And… let me see… Fucked into the dirt by Jon Snow?” 

“Ramsay!” Theon squirms uncomfortably, only managing to make it worse for himself. Or better Definitely better. 

“So that’s a yes for that one…” Ramsay grins. He runs his free hand up Theon’s sweat-streaked belly and scratches his fingernails back down to his thighs. Theon’s body flexes in response. He actually begins to feel like he might be able to come. 

“He wasn’t fucking me,  _ actually _ ,” he manages to gasp out. “He was just besting me in the training yard.”

“And besting you in the hot springs too, I’ll bet…” Ramsay chuckles. “Okay… how about… Oh!” He ramps up the pressure inside Theon. “Below decks on a ship. Unknown shipmate - yes!” It’s obvious from the way Theon’s body jerks that he’s scored with that one too. He carries on, stroking harder and faster. 

“It must be someone you know, but it’s dark and you don’t know who it is, but it doesn’t even matter, all you want is his cock in you and all he wants is to give it to you. You’re both fumbling around in the pitch black, unlacing trousers and climbing over each other. He finds you already slick and ready for him - you’re  _ such _ a  _ fuck _ ing  _ slut _ ,” three hard sharp jabs that make Theon cry out. “And then he’s in you and he’s fucking you, fucking you in the dark. Your own shipmate. It could be your oar partner, or the head of your watch or the fucking cook, any of them could be fucking you right now, you’d have any of them. You’d have all of them, you  _ dirty. Little. Whore. _ ”

Theon grunts with those last strokes and he’s coming, incredibly, he’s coming, with Ramsay not even as much as breathing on his cock. Thin, watery seed pulses out from him and his whole body shakes with the enormity of it all. Ramsay croons encouragement and strokes at his belly and legs while he rides through it, withdrawing his fingers slowly when Theon starts to come back down.  He’s panting, sweating. He’s seeing stars. 

“Fuck me, you’re beautiful…” he murmurs as he wriggles back up the bed to pull Theon into a hug. 

Theon waves weakly at him. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You don’t have to, gorgeous. Just be you.” Ramsay kisses him, tasting salty sweat and a hint of metallic blood where Theon must have bitten his lip or tongue. 

“I’ll just be yours.” Theon agrees sleepily, cuddling up against Ramsay’s chest. 

 Behind him, the candle flickers wildly for a moment, and burns out.

 

 


End file.
